Somewhere, deep in the dustry corridors of the white matter, I have a vague recollection of *asking* several schools to *allow* me to be a PhD student. In the same corridor, I kind of (really? I mean, really?) remember writing an essay to the effect that I was familiar with the daily rigamorales of research, that I was eager (eager! really?) to jump in head first.
Three years later, maybe even more than half-way done (don't laugh Erin and Chadene... stranger things have happened), I wake up some days without a single notion of why I signed up for this. During a good week, about half of my experiments work. During a good week, my boss doesn't throw firey darts at me with her eyes. During a good week, I don't cry on the train ride home. During a really good week, I don't go to work on Saturday or Sunday. This week wasn't one of them. Tim and I had both had to run experiments yesterday, but we took a three hour break while gels were running and viruses were infecting innocent cells to enjoy the concord river.
We paddled to the Old North Bridge, and had such a very easy time of it that we paddled another mile or two past it. Well... geniuses that we are, we realized when we turned around to head back that the reason the first half of the trip was so easy was because a) we were paddling downstream, and b) there was a rather strong wind at our back. We frantically paddled back to meet not only our 2-hour rental agreement (they charge by the hour and we're students after all), but also to stop our experiments lest another week of work be wasted. We completely exhausted ourselves, paddled in circles at several turbulent points (we're beginners, and if I say the river was turbulent, you must kindly humor me), and pulled up in the nick of time.
Then we went back to work, happier people. Incidentally, I can't move today. Please send food.
Jason and I exchanged our usual greeting.
